Avatar Of The Gods: Fax Facis
by The Duchess Of The Dark
Summary: Chapter 2 updated! Ardeth Bey & Rhiannon Ward return to Egypt to retrieve the Throne Of Isis & prevent Runihura opening the gates to the Underworld. Part of the 'Avatar Of The Gods' series. Sequel to 'Fas Fortuna'. Anyone else jealous I'm going to Egypt?
1. To Cairo & Beyond

Title: Avatar Of The Gods: Fax Facis

Title: Avatar Of The Gods: Fax Facis

Author: The Duchess Of The Dark   
Teaser: Post 'The Mummy Returns'. Ardeth Bey & Rhiannon Ward return to Egypt to retrieve the Throne Of Isis & prevent Runihura opening the gates to the Underworld.

Rating: PG 13

Disclaimer: All recognisable characters belong to Universal Pictures. [Isis, Queen among Goddesses,][1] belongs to herself. Rhiannon Ward is mine. So are Khepri, Layla, Runihura and Sebak.

Genre: Action/adventure and hints of more to come. For more fiction (not fanfic) visit my page at Illona's Place Vampires [www.bloodlust-uk.com/helenmurphyfiction.htm][2]

Archive: Yes, but ask me first, please.   
Notes: This is the sequel to ['Avatar Of The Gods: Fas Fortuna'][3]. The title is Latin, (literally) meaning a torch, especially as carried at weddings and funerals. But in this case means a person(s) who instigates things, or a brilliant, passionate, heavenly light. 'Arcanum' contains an extensive index of definitions & names that I don't want to repeat here – it takes up too much room! If you want to know what an Arabic/Egyptian name means, or what certain items of clothing are, consult that…

*

****

Cairo

The sky darkened towards dusk, daytime blue washed burnt tangerine by the setting sun. Shortly, the Imam would begin calling the faithful to final prayers. As the approaching night stole away the heat and light, people headed for the mosques, or home to their families. Hands thrust into the sleeves of his blue shalwar kameez, the gali gali man contemplated packing up his rickety table and assorted gimmicky magic tricks. Stroking his beard, he glanced around the small square of shops, listening to the click and rattle of the beaded curtains and faded window shutters, paint blistered by the relentless sun. Peering past a gnarled, somewhat withered potted palm to 'Antiquities and Curiosities', he shuddered and muttered a quick prayer. Apparently recovered from his grief at loosing his brother, Abdul-Wahid Fahrer had rushed from Luxor to take over his business interests. 

The gali gali man shook his head. He had been present when the authorities had removed Azim Fahrer's corpse, an anonymous face in a morbidly curious crowd. He had found his appetite for lunch was quite diminished. Just thinking about it made him vaguely nauseous. A tall, fleet shadow passed across the wide entrance to the square, followed moments later by a figure robed in black. At first glance, the gali gali man mistook the spindly man for Med-Jai, the black robes and poor light contributing to the deductive jump of the forebrain. He realised there was something fundamentally wrong with the way the robed man was moving. He walked with an unnatural posture of multi-jointed stiffness, as if he was a much larger creature awkwardly crammed into a skin suit. 

Shaking off a sudden feeling of unease, the street magician forced himself to see the strange, lanky man as just another source of income. Performing a quick, extravagant salaam, the he waved and beckoned the stranger over.

"The peace of Allah upon you, sir!" he called. "See here, I shall astound you with wonders! Watch the ball disappear beneath your very eyes! Pick the right cup, sir, and the money shall be yours!"

Displaying a small crimson ball with a flourish, held between thumb and forefinger, he popped it beneath one of three decorated steel cups and began moving them around. Slowly, the thin man turned and strode over, features hidden in shadow. A single bright coin dropped onto the rusted fold-up table.

"Keep your eye on the ball, sir!" the magician urged, the cups moving in a blurring flash. "Now! Which is it under? Hmmm?"

The gali gali man looked up, hands fluttering to outline the three cups. Silence. His professional grin froze in place, smooth patter drying on his tongue. Pinned in place by the flat metallic grey of the stranger's eyes, he swallowed, sure he could hear a faint, almost inaudible hissing sound from inside his robes. An impossibly long hand reached out and settled on a glinting steel cup, the correct cup, and lifted it up to reveal the ball. The gali gali man gasped aloud. Nobody had ever picked the right cup in twenty years as a street entertainer. Head bobbing gently from side to side, mamba-like, the stranger lifted his hand towards the magician's throat.

"Sebak."

At the new voice, the attenuated man jerked around, instantly assuming a bow-headed attitude of submissiveness. The gali gali man found he had pressed himself back against the discoloured whitewash wall behind him. He watched with burgeoning terror as a second cloaked man entered the square. Powerfully built, shoulders broad beneath his robes, he carried himself with the self-assurance of a pharaoh. Features concealed by an expressionless beaten silver mask, he seemed to carry darkness with him, a shroud of black hate and chaos. 

"Do you wish to share the fate of your predecessor?" The voice was a satin-sheathed blade, fiercest violence contained by a veneer of civility. "There are always replacements."

Sebak bowed almost double, snake eyes nailed to the dusty paving at his feet. His master proceeded soundlessly across the square, moving like his feet bore oiled wheels. The silver mask flashed in the gloom as he perused the surrounding area. Desperately trying to stop shaking, wondering why he was so afraid, the gali gali man fought for sufficient courage to peel himself away from the wall and flee. 

"We must retrace all Her steps," the masked man announced, ignoring the trembling magician. "No clue to the Throne's whereabouts must be missed. She will soon return, if She has not already."

He broke off, appearing to become immersed in thought, head slightly lowered. Shoulders bunching beneath his voluminous robes, he looked up at the cobalt frowse of the sky.

"I shall not be thwarted by Her, not again. She _will_ pay." His gloved hand drifted up to touch the burnished silver cheek of his mask. "And so will the Med-Jai."

Turning, he glided towards the antiques shop. Slices of warm light appeared at the doorway as an oil lamp was lit. Silently, the thin man followed in his wake, keeping a respectful distance. The gali gali man heaved a great sigh, clutching at his racing heart. Rubbing at his throat, trying to dispel the burning cold where the stiff-limbed stranger's fingertips had brushed, he coughed. Eyes watering, he coughed again and spat something out into his hand. Blinking, he realised it was a small red ball. Windpipe spasming, he hacked and choked, bringing up another two. Then three. Then four, all coated in frothy white mucus. Gagging, eyes bulging, he clawed at his chest and throat, mouth gaping wide. Struggling for breath, he collapsed, face contorted and blue-purple as countless balls filled his trachea and lungs, spilling out onto the floor. Twitching once, he expired.

*

****

The National Railway Line, Between Alexandria & Cairo

Leaning his forearm against the padded window ledge, Ardeth Bey gazed out into the rushing night, watching as lush delta and the dark navy blue ribbon of the Nile sped past. The regular tempo of the express train, steel wheels clacking over worn tracks, was soothing, but he could not sleep. To Rhiannon's restrained irritation, there was only a single berth compartment left on the overnight train by the time they arrived. When he had questioned their means of transport, wondering why she did not use her deity powers, or travel by paddle steamer, Ward had pointed to the swollen Nile.

"Runihura can track me, as I can Him, if we use a great deal of magic," she had patiently explained. "If I stick to teensy magic, the minds of all these people will hide me. The river is out of the question – remember how Imhotep half drowned you with his splendid little tidal wave trick?"

Bey had been forced to agree, albeit he found the long hours confined in a carriage testing. He considered himself a patient man, but the threat to his people played upon his mind. Hearing a heavy, muffled thud above his head, he glanced up, hand snaking to the butt of his Browning. When he looked back at the window, a long, plumed tail dangled down outside. Layla's aristocratic sphinx-like features appeared, whiskers crumpling to flash her great teeth at the Bedouin. With a dismissive flick of her feline tail, she was gone, off fulfilling whatever errand her mistress had set.

_Allah above! The djinn are sulking like children, _he thought, shaking his head.

Shifting position in the comfortably-upholstered seat, his gaze roamed the first-class compartment. A single leather suitcase, 'RW' monogrammed in gold above the handle, sat next to his meager knapsack on the parcel shelf. It seemed odd that a goddess would need a suitcase, and suddenly quite amusing. But the goddess was also human, subject to many of the resultant frailties and basic material needs. Amusement fading, Ardeth looked over to the small bunk and the sleeping occupant. Rhiannon lay on her side on top of the covers, knees drawn up, one slender hand curled beneath her chin. A wing of tousled dark hair had fallen over her cheek, stirring gently as she breathed. Her narrow leather boots lay discarded on the floor, their shine diminished by a thin layer of latté brown Alexandria mud.

The Med-Jai chieftain found himself listening to the measured, peaceful sound of her breathing, realising he had not considered she may need to sleep, just like any other human being. Unlike the undead Imhotep, to whom he had initially compared her, she needed rest and sustenance. Again dressed in functional Bedouin black; slim-fitting khaliji and jilbab, she had not uttered a word in English since their arrival, using Arabic with occasional lapses into Coptic or Berber. Slumber had skimmed her alabaster features of animation, leaving them soft and deceptively passive. She jumped suddenly, brow pleating with distress, and muttered incomprehensibly under her breath.

_She's having a nightmare,_ Ardeth deduced. _What have you seen in your life, White Lady, that disturbs your sleep? What does the avatar of Isis dream of? Of heaven left for a cage of flesh and blood? Of ancient enemies and lovers long dead…?_

A polite, hesitant knock at the compartment door drew his attention. Starched white shirt gleaming in the half-light of the carriage corridor, a steward slid the door open a few inches.

"I saw you were awake, sir – can I get you anything? Some tea for the English lady, perhaps?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

There was barely veiled curiosity in his neutral expression and subservient clasped hands, gaze tracking over Bey's glyph tattoos and the newly sharpened scimitar that lay on the seat within easy reach. 

"No, thank you," Ardeth replied, seeing the steward's slight nod and furtive backward glance as he left. 

The Med-Jai chieftain neither knew nor cared what the steward thought – though he could make an educated guess. Rumours abounded whenever they were spotted outside the desert, and they were content to allow tongues to wag. Generations of misinformation had kept the Med-Jai the stuff of legend and discouraged most treasure hunters. Most sophisticated city-dwellers thought them little more than savage Bedouin camel herders, and the fact one travelled in first class with a foreign lady was bound to provide the steward with several weeks worth of gossip. Ardeth frowned, knowing that a flurry of gossip had the potential to leave a breadcrumb trail.

"Don't worry about him, I've cast a glamour – nobody will remember us once we leave."

Opening her agate green eyes, Rhiannon sat up and tucked her loose inky hair behind her left ear, a pink pillow crease etched into her cheek. She stretched, spine elongating like a sleepy cat, and planted her stocking feet onto the wooden floor. 

"Your camp is two day's hard ride from Cairo," she said, the utterance a statement, not a question.

"We have moved since your last visit, lady," Bey revealed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I am unsure where, it was scheduled for a week ago, when I was in England. I will find out when we reach Cairo."

Ward's lips quirked into a tiny moue of feigned awe, winging eyebrows elevating.

"Ah, I sense the dreaded hand of the Elders," she observed irreverently.

"They are wiser than I," Ardeth retorted stiffly. 

"Undoubtedly," she agreed jovially. "Am I to be presented to the grey beards? I promise to mind my P's and Q's."

Bearing her teasing with his usual equanimity, the Med-Jai chieftain's chin lifted a degree or two. Seeing the twinkle in the Englishwoman's emerald eyes, he sighed and looked momentarily heavenwards. Rhiannon grinned and swung her crossed ankles. Humour seeping away, she glanced out of the window for long moments, eyes temporarily unfocussing. Ardeth had learnt to associate this with communication with her djinn. She blinked once, long jet lashes sweeping her pale cheek, and looked at him.

"I will need to consult with your scholars," she informed him coolly, once more regal and distant. "My previous avatar was a sloppy housekeeper, and things do tend to go missing over the millennia."

She spoke as if she had misplaced a moderately valuable ornament or piece of jewellery, projecting interest, but no especial concern. 

"You don't know where the Throne is?" Ardeth exclaimed with disbelief. 

The goddess speared him with a pointed glare, eyes winking sunflash, hands in her lap in an attitude of royal serenity. All she lacked was the ankh key and flail of the pharaoh, a brief flicker of light describing twin silvered cow horns above the crown of her head. Already dim, the overhead compartment lamp hissed and died. 

"Not exactly," she admitted sheepishly. "But I have more of an idea than Runihura… You look tired, Ardeth – get some sleep."

Lifting her hand, fingers splayed, she gestured. Bey's last cognisant thought before slumber claimed him was of annoyance.

_I wish she would stop doing that…_

*

   [1]: http://www.touregypt.net/magazine/mag08012001/isis2.jpg
   [2]: http://www.bloodlust-uk.com/helenmurphyfiction.htm
   [3]: http://www.fanfiction.net/index.fic?action=story-read&storyid=312746



	2. The Thalatash Wailing Caves

**The Thalatash Wailing Caves**, **Somewhere In The Sinai Peninsula**

Gripping his impeccably maintained rifle, Uthman blinked to clear his bleary eyes, and yawned. Since the Mawlana handpicked him for scouting and guard assignments, his standing had risen amongst his peers and superiors, as had the number of night duties. Rubbing a hand across his healed tattoos, he adjusted his kuffiyeh to keep out the chill wind. A significant distance above sea level, the air was icy crisp in the mountain range, scented with springy lichen and wandering wild goats. Shivering as a cold gust nipped spitefully at his thick burnoose, the young scout took a step inside the tunnel mouth to his back.

Leading to a labyrinthine network of caverns and catacombs, the tunnel was the only accessible entrance to the Thalatash Wailing Caves. The endless lament of the wind through its depths gave rise to the name and an undeserved reputation of hauntings. Taking advantage of this, the Med-Jai used them to convene for secret meetings, away from the burning heat of the desert. Opening his mouth to yawn again, Uthman paused, brown eyes narrowing. There were four people negotiating the scree-covered slope leading away down the rocky valley. Hefting his rifle, the scout wrapped his index finger around the trigger and squinted, taking aim.

"Halt!" he cried forcefully, voice carrying on the wind, multiplying into a thousand echoing copies. "Friend or foe?"

The foremost figure, lower face concealed by a tightly wound kuffiyeh, waved a hand in greeting. Staying his trigger finger, Uthman peered down through the purple-grey night, noting the familiar straight-backed grace of the waver.

"Friends!" Even distorted by distance and whipping air currents, the voice was unmistakably Ardeth Bey.

Grinning, the scout lowered his weapon and waited for his master to surmount the slope. Loose chips of grey-green shale crunching beneath his boots, Bey reached the tunnel mouth, turned, and courteously held out his hand. A pale female hand slid into his, the owner graciously allowing the assistance. Rhiannon stepped up onto the bluff, flanked by her djinn, now in human form and robed in swirling black. Uthman gasped aloud, eyes huge in his face, and brought up his weapon, only for Ardeth to shake his head and push the muzzle down.

"No, my friend," he said firmly. "Where you not told I would be accompanied?"

"Y-yes, Mawlana," the young Med-Jai stammered. "B-but…"

He trailed off and stared at the avatar uncertainly, keeping a white-knuckled grip on his rifle. Ward smiled disarmingly and threw back her hood, freeing her inky hair to the playful fingers of the wind.

"I come in peace, young badawi," she soothed. "Would your master be standing here unharmed if I didn't?"

Unconvinced, Uthman continued to stare, darting suspicious glances at the djinn, who now appeared as identical dusky-skinned, raven-haired women with glittering amber eyes. Unnaturally still, poised at their mistress's side, they regarded the young man with unblinking scrutiny. Returning his attention to Rhiannon, the scout swallowed a quick breath with an audible gulp. Gaze sliding between them, Ardeth could understand his subordinate's uneasy awe. Skin milky opal, shining translucently in the tepid moonlight, Ward stood against the damson backdrop of the skies, midnight hair snaking about her head like the Greek medusa. She glowed in the darkness, a subdued ethereal gleam like moonbeams on water, eyes a shockingly intense emerald.

Her form shimmered, a slow ripple that began at her feet and moved steadily upwards, transforming travel-dusty wool into robes of gold-shot jet silk. A gold diadem adorned with kite wings appeared at her brow, plain khaliji melting into a pleated white linen khaftan, cinched at the waist by a jewelled girdle. When she spoke, her voice resounded like silver bells, gentle and maternal.

"Do not fear me, young one," she said, touching a finger to the ebony Isis Knot at her throat. "I brought civilisation to Egypt – I am the mother of all her children. The Med-Jai have nothing to fear from me. I walk in Ra's eternal light, as do you."

Uthman's mouth hung open, a slack loop of unadulterated wonderment. Reaching over, the goddess tipped his chin, fingertips leaving soft silver impressions of fey light.

"Tell your Elders I am here, child," she murmured.

Nodding dazedly, Uthman turned and sprinted away down the tunnel, pausing only to snatch up a firebrand from just inside the entrance. Path illuminated by a bright circle of umber flame, he did not glance back. A fair distance in, he turned a corner, and darkness clenched its fist about him. Regal and distant, the consummate goddess, Rhiannon turned the luminous weight of her gaze to Ardeth.

"Come, sayadi," she instructed in Coptic. "Your Elders expect Isis. Let us not disappoint them."

Bowing his head, a gesture of respect, tinged with a measure of the awe his scout felt, Bey gestured magnanimously towards the darkened tunnel mouth.

"Ladies first, as they say in your homeland," he invited.

A brief smile tweaked Ward's lips, a tiny flash of English character, and she acknowledged the courtesy with a small nod. The djinn raised their left hands in unison, fierce spheres of incandescent white flame appearing in their palms to light the way. Each movement was a simultaneous mirror of the other, eerily precise. They were almost more alarming in human form than feline. Unfastening his kuffiyeh, Ardeth followed the unusual retinue, not at all surprised she did not need to ask for directions.

_This,_ he thought with mingled concern and expectancy, _should be very interesting…_

Smooth underfoot, worn like polished glass by centuries of running water a millennia since dried, the sandstone tunnel floor stretched away before them. The sorcerous globes carried by Khepri and Layla picked out flecks of quartz in the stone, light bouncing from chip to crystalline chip until the concave wall became a dancing curtain of firefly brilliance.

"Pretty," Rhiannon commented absently, her voice temporarily losing its unnatural resonance. "If only I could market that, I'd be in clover."

Ardeth stole a sideways glance at her, not for the first time unable to decide if she was poking fun or perfectly serious. Isis, it seemed, was not without a sense of humour. Without slowing her pace, the avatar trailed her fingers along the nearest wall as they rounded a corner into a three-way junction. Unerringly taking the correct route, she suddenly paused and looked back to Bey.

"What am I to expect?" she asked. "How likely are your Elders to support your decision to make an alliance?"

Lifting his right shoulder in a minimal shrug, the Med-Jai chieftain hooked a thumb through his bandoleer.

"They will offer their counsel, lady, as will the twelve chieftains, but the final say is mine," he stated frankly. "There will be disagreement, of that I'm sure."

Ward looked intensely thoughtful, a ruckle appearing in her smooth brow. Her glowing aura diminished, then flared up with increased brilliance.

"Well," she observed solemnly. "If they disagree to any great extent, I can always have Khepri and Layla eat them. They're partial to a little red meat."

Without further comment, she resumed walking, the tunnel opening out into a cavern spiked with knobbled stalagmites. Mild alarm gripped Ardeth as he increased his pace to catch up, dark brows drawn together in a scowl of apprehension. If he had learnt anything about the avatar of Isis, it was the impossibility of predicting her actions or assigning the expected meaning to her words. Dodging around a stalagmite as thick as his waist, he opened his mouth to speak, only for Rhiannon to turn and place a warm finger to his lips.

"I'm joking," she said softly, humour in her curled lips and the tiny crinkles at the corners of her lambent eyes. "Fearless, noble, Ardeth."

Her rich contralto shaped his given name like a caress, making Bey very much aware of the finger pressed to his lips. Moistening his abruptly dry mouth, he found he had no words to utter.

_Does she realise she does this?_ he thought distractedly. _Is she doing it deliberately? She has no need to bewitch me over to her cause…_

Intending politely to thank her for such high praise, he instead found himself folding her wrist in his hand, and turning the delicate inner flesh towards his mouth. A faint, intricate tracery of blue veins beat beneath the hieroglyph tattoo, the pulse of life. He thought he heard her breath catch just as his lips brushed her skin. A sudden growl from the djinn shattered the moment, a warning, muted snarl of protective jealousy.

"We have an escort," Rhiannon observed, pulling her hand away.

A contingent of twelve Med-Jai warriors stood at the far end of the cavern, all heavily armed with scimitars, firebrands, rifles and high calibre handguns. If they had witnessed the preceding minutes, they gave no outward sign, expressions impassive. The leading warrior stepped forward, inclining his head respectfully.

"Mawlana, the peace of God upon you!" he hailed.

"Faris, well met!" Ardeth moved forward to meet him, clasping his arm.

Faris Bey, Second-In-Command, gave his elder brother a half-smile, then his deep brown eyes skipped to the avatar. Wreathed in undulating light, eyes painted black and gold, dressed in the finery of ancient times, her presence filled the cavern.

"Lady," he greeted cautiously, with a brief dip of his head.

"Bey the younger, I presume," the goddess observed. "I see the family likeness."

Faris chose not to comment, warily eyeing the silent, veiled djinn, whose eyes gleamed like sunlight on beaten gold.

"This way, if you please," he said, indicating the direction with a wave of his hand.

The assembled warriors parted, forming lines either side of the goddess, hands resting conspicuously on sword hilts and gun butts. With quick, subtle movements, the djinn extinguished the fey light spheres and folded their hands into the full sleeves of their robes. As the group processed, Ardeth could see his men darting furtive glances, looking while trying to appear like they were not doing so. Casually, Faris dropped back to his side, shooting him a questioning look that communicated his opinion his brother had completely lost his mind.

"Later," Ardeth mouthed silently. _Now is not the time, nor the place, for an argument._

Fanning out at the entrance to a huge cavern, half a dozen warriors peeled away from the group, taking up position either side. A great forest of stalactites covered the roof, some no thicker than a thumb, others of larger girth than a mature tree. Tapering, bent by time and absent water, some joined with stalagmites on the cavern floor, forming twisted columns. At intervals, the wind danced between them, creating a low, husky moan. Though he had been there many times, Ardeth looked up at the tangle of calcite in the roof, the spectacle never ceasing to impress.

The twelve aged Med-Jai who formed the Elder's Council sat around a small fire on gold-tasselled silk cushions. The chieftains of the twelve tribes, or their representatives, stood against the walls, distinguished by silver motifs at their collars. Swept away by the ceaseless breeze, the smoke disappeared amongst the stalactites. Beards silvered with age, sacred tattoos faded and distorted against skin wrinkled like fine parchment, they nonetheless rose to their feet to greet the assemblage.

"Mawlana," Abdul-Rafi Hassad, the eldest and self-appointed spokesman greeted. "Allah be praised you are safe and well."

He turned to Rhiannon Ward, rheumy eyes watering at her supernatural radiance, and performed a respectful salaam.

"Isis, mother of Egypt, we welcome you," he intoned formally in flawless Coptic. "Forgive the frugal surroundings, but the secrecy is essential."

The goddess acknowledged the old man with a gracious nod, features a serene mask that betrayed little emotion. Her luminance outshone the firebrands secured in iron holders on the walls. She was a frieze representation given life, hyper-real, magical and entrancing.

"I thank you, wise one," she replied. "This opportunity means much. I trust you have been told of the reason for my coming?"

The old Med-Jai nodded sombrely, looking back to his fellows.

"We have, lady. There are questions we will need to ask. Forgive my disrespect, but we have reason to distrust any that claim divine sanction or origin. It is not only Hamunaptra that harbours ancient evil."

Accepting his words without protest, the avatar sat down upon empty air as if she occupied a pharaoh's throne. Noiselessly, Khepri and Layla moved to her side, faces covered but for their feline eyes.

"Then let us begin," she declared, bidding them all to sit with an eloquent gesture.

The Elders resumed their seats around the crackling fire, warming their hands to ward off the invasive chill. Ardeth Bey took a seat at the centre of the Council, Faris settling to his right. With a loud snap of her fingers, the goddess lit the cavern with a sorcerous lavender glow. Leaning forward in her intangible throne, a queen presiding over court, she waited for the debate to begin.

*

The babble of raised voices filled the cavern, a tide of questions, answers, further enquiry and disagreement. In amongst the hubub, Faris Bey leaned over to his brother and cocked a quizzical eyebrow.

"How sure are you?" he asked. "About this… whatever she is? Do you really believe she's Isis incarnate?"

Ardeth regarded his younger sibling and read the conflicting emotions in his expression. Faris wanted to trust him – he was the eldest son and the Mawlana. Ingrained mistrust of the magical and harsh experience battling the Jackal warriors of Anubis at Am Shere made him deeply wary. Warming his outstretched hands over the fire, the Med-Jai chieftain glanced over at the goddess, who sat erect and untouchable, glowing softly like moonstone.

"All I know, my brother, is she's something apart… something _powerful_. She is woman and goddess…" He broke off and shook his dark head wonderingly. "I saw Her open a passage into the Underworld." His black eyes hardened and momentarily lifted towards the unseen mountains and desert above. "It is Runihura that concerns me more – if He disempowers Her, He could lay ruin to the world. The Creature was a gali gali man playing with balls compared to their power."

Faris, who possessed the same reserved equanimity as his brother, showed little outward sign of his emotions. He gave a small, elegant gesture with his hands, a shoulderless shrug, thoughtfully rubbing his beard in his sword-callused palm. Around them the debate raged on, conflicting views and clashing opinion highlighted by quoting of ancient texts or legends. Khair al Din suddenly stood up, cousin of Abdul-Rafi Hassad, and directed a broad-ranging glare at his colleagues.

"We have no proof! This woman is not Isis! So far we have seen little but petty tricks!" he boomed.

Surprisingly, Abdul-Rafi did not agree, but struggled to his feet, shaking with rage. Though aged and bent-backed, all around him unconsciously drew back.

"How dare you!" he grated. "Do you ask Almighty Allah to prove his existence? I _know _She is Isis! When I was a boy of twenty, I saw Her at Hamunaptra where Her temple once stood!"

A murmur of wonderment swept the assembled wisemen, accompanied by a fresh outbreak of questions. With an involuntary start of astonishment, Ardeth looked over to Rhiannon Ward, quelling an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. It seemed she was far older than she appeared. For a fraction of a moment, her face was caught in profile against the shimmering light, features sculpted porcelain, eyes discs of jade, and the Med-Jai chieftain caught his breath. A shade of memory pushed forward in his subconscious, momentarily surfacing in the conscious mind, and he found himself thinking of the first time the Creature had risen. Trapped by undead mummy priests in a crumbling underground corridor, he had been certain his death was imminent, but he had survived. Ardeth frowned, unable to recall exactly how he had escaped, images of a cloaked female presence swirling through his head. The memory slipped away before he could seize upon it, as elusive and intangible as smoke.

"Camel dung!" Khair al Din scoffed rudely.

The hubub ceased, plummeting into anxious silence as the goddess smote the air with a sound like a slammed sarcophagus and rose from her intangible throne. At her side, the djinn blurred, transforming from robed women to their sphinx-lioness forms, bearing their great teeth. The lavender glow emanating from the goddess snapped into a throbbing inky black that still somehow emitted light. Tiny snakelets of diamond white luminance wound through her jet hair, fury in her supernova eyes. A shrieking gale suddenly tore through the cavern, extinguishing the torches and fires. Hair and robes billowing, she raised her hand.

"Silence!" the utterance boomed through the massive cavern, accompanied by rolling thunder.

Too painfully brilliant to behold, her image flickered, alternating between a terrible lion-headed warrior and kite-winged sphinx. Khair al Din paled to a sickly beige, knowing, as did every man present, that Isis had many faces and roles, including that of Sekhmet, goddess of war and vengeance. The howling wind stopped and the cavern was unnaturally still, scented with myrrh, rose, iris, and eucalyptus. When she spoke, her voice was razors wrapped in black silk.

"You dare speak to me thus, child of the desert? I am Queen of Heaven, Lady of the Winds, the goddess of countless names. I took Ra's name and powers for my own. I can grant eternal peace in Sekhet-Hetepet, or condem a soul to everlasting hell. Be thankful Set's vigilance prevents me from showing you first hand!"

Khair al Din began to tremble and quail beneath the goddess's gaze, his features losing all remaining colour. Jumping to his feet, Ardeth dared to approach, mindful the old man could suffer a heart attack. Desert boots loud on the smooth cavern floor, heart louder in his chest, he stepped over an extinguished fire and halted before the avatar. Touching a hand to his brow, then heart, he dipped his head respectfully.

"Lady," he said, ignoring the muted growling of the djinn. "Forgive the rudeness of this one man, we mean no disrespect."

Aware that by using the collective 'we' he had taken responsibility for Khair al Din's discourtesy, he waited, deliberately keeping his hands away from his weapons. The guards at the entrance had their rifles trained upon the goddess, and he bade them stand down with a single gesture. Golden fiery eyes turned from the quivering Elder to rest upon the chieftain, devoid of any trace of Rhiannon Ward. Nations had fallen and been birthed in her name, gentle mother or warrior queen. She blinked, shutting off their luminance, and when they opened were green once more.

"Very well," she allowed graciously, sitting down, the fires and torches reigniting with muted pops.

Realising he had been holding his breath, something that happened with great frequency in Ward's company, Ardeth gave a second minimal bow and resumed his seat. Still grey-faced, Khai al Din sat down heavily on his tassled cushion, sweat beading his brow. Abdul-Rafi Hassad stood once more, leaning on his stick.

"Lady," he announced. "It may be we can discover the whereabouts of the Throne, but we don't have the ancient texts with us. They are stored safely elsewhere." He broke off and glanced at his colleagues, then at Ardeth, who gave a small nod of assent. "We Med-Jai are not cowards, but we fear for our people should Set learn we have aided you. We have no defence against a god."

The goddess appeared to consider the old man's words, slender fingers curling around the invisible arm of her throne. She was silent for so long that a quiet murmuring swept the cavern, each man casting questioning glances at his neighbour. At length, she stood, linen khaftan swirling at her ankles. Every head in the room swivelled her way, an expectant hush falling.

"Your co-operation is much needed, wise one," she said. "And I would not ask you to risk so much without recompense."

She opened her right hand, a small starflash of white light blooming at the centre. The sphere folded out into a snake-bladed dagger with a gold hilt set with carnelian. Holding up her left arm, the sleeve falling back to expose her pale wrist, she placed the sharp blade above the radial artery.

"Let the blood of Isis, and spirits of Isis, and the words of power of Isis, be mighty to protect and keep safely the Med-Jai!" she intoned, drawing the blade quickly across the vein. A splash of crimson sparkled in the air, floating like flung streamers of ribbon. "And to guard them from they that would do unto them anything which they abominateth."

She tossed the dagger into the air, where it disappeared, and spread her hands. The slash wound glowed, gaping redly, then sealed like a pulled drawstring.

"The Med-Jai have my protection," she said simply. "If I can prevent it, He shall not harm a single man, woman or child. But we waste time arguing. Wise one, enlighten me – what of these texts?"

*

It was cool and dark, the air scented with myrrh incense smouldering in brass urns at the altar. Shallow ceremonial dishes of beaten gold filled with water and rose petals stood at either side. A polished granite idol of Isis with the infant Horus on her knee stood upon the altar, wreathed with fresh, purple-hearted irises. Scarlet carnelian beads hung around the statue's neck, threaded on waxed cotton. Kneeling before the altar, the cold stone a welcome respite from Ra's midsummer heat, he murmured the customary prayers. His offering, a seed loaf, sat at the idol's feet, the dough still warm and moist from the oven.

Eyes closed, he continued to pray, the words slipping from his lips in a reverent, hushed tone. The quiet slap of bare feet on polished marble drew his attention, but he remained kneeling, palms splayed on the floor before him. He ached from the day's labour, muscles taut and hot from overuse. Feeling a trickle of sweat snake along his spine, despite the temple's cool interior, he sat back on his heels, pleated linen kirtle rustling softly. He gazed up at the statue of Isis, watching how candlelight played across quartz flecks in the granite. Almost mesmerized, he fancied the statue moved, the carved mouth curving in a subtle smile. Catching a note of jasmine, he turned, eyes picking out the figure emerging from the gloom at his back.

Robed in red and purple, the colours of the goddess, eyes lined with thick kohl and gold dust, she stopped at a respectable distance. A polished ebony Isis knot hung from her neck, nestling in the valley between her breasts.

"I have not seen you in a while, Med-Jai," she observed. "It is not wise to neglect the Mother Goddess."

Still, watchful, eyes green as the spring Nile, she gestured towards the statue. Raven braids, her hair tapped just below her shoulder blades, each lock expertly perfumed and waxed. A circlet bearing the cow horns and solar disk of Isis sat on her brow. He climbed to his feet, dipping his head respectfully, eyes downcast.

"My High Priestess," he greeted formally. "Duty to my Pharaoh, who is the son of the Goddess, has kept me away."

She stepped closer, the regal, distant set of her features softening. Momentarily pausing as a small group of worshippers passed across the floor towards the exit, she dipped a finger in the rosewater and anointed the feet of the idol.

"And what a terrible duty that has been of late," she said quietly. "Even now, you hear his screams. Do you not?"

Startled, he looked up, heart pounding against his ribs. She quirked an eyebrow at his expression, communicating mild rebuke at his surprise.

"Isis knows all," she stated. "The priests of Osiris think they do His will. The Hom Dai will wreak destruction on Egypt. They forget Her warnings."

She shook her head, the silver beads in her hair jingling like sistrum bells. Sweeping her robes up, she dropped into an elegant lotus before the altar, long slender hands resting at her knees.

"Come," she ordered, then softened the imperative, tone lowering. "Sit with me so you may find comfort. Please. You have done enough for your dead Pharaoh today, captain."

Warily, he lowered himself onto the smooth marble, tucking his scimitar behind him. Aside from Nefertiri, she was the most powerful woman in Egypt, the Oracle and High Priestess of the Creatrix. Glancing up, he inadvertently met her gaze, finding it warm and tender. All at once, the fragile barrier holding in his emotions broke.

"I am so tired," he mumbled abruptly, voice deep and rough. "I have spent the day entombing men alive because we Med-Jai have failed in our sacred duty."

He seemed to sag, spine bowing, chin sinking to his chest. The skittering of flesh-eating scarabs filled his head, the shrill, choking screams of Imhotep and his blindly-loyal priests. He shuddered, almost recoiling as she laid a cool, gentle hand on his arm. To touch a High Priestess was unthinkable, even for a man of his privileged station. She had but to call to the temples guards and he would be put to death.

"No, there is no failure. This was preordained, as are our past and future lives."

Noting his reaction, a brief flicker of dismay passed over her face. She inclined her head, emerald eyes luminous in the gloaming.

"Do I disgust you?" she asked sadly. "Has the horror of this day made you dread the touch of Her children?"

Shaking his head fiercely, feeling the heat rising in his cheeks beneath the tattooing, he opened his mouth to apologise. She pressed a finger to his lips and shook her head, shifting position slightly. The rich fabric of her robes sighed and parted with the movement, revealing a slender calf and gold bangles at her ankles.

"Isetnofret…" Her name, uttered with reluctant longing, caused her to smile. "We cannot, especially now."

He folded his hand over hers, drawing it away from his face. Her fingers curled around his, warm, pink-scrubbed from ritual washing. Sighing as a dark indent appeared above her painted eyes, the only indication of her distress, he pressed his lips to the tattoo on her inner wrist.

"They dare not touch me, Tarik," she whispered, trailing fingertips across his brow and jaw. "The squabbling nobles who vie for the throne, the scheming priests who dream of yet more gold. Nefertiri is temple-trained and loyal to Isis. She would never allow it." She gazed up at the idol. "Nor would the Queen of Heaven – She protects Her children on earth until She calls them to Her side."

Choosing not to answer, unsure he could refrain from say something that may offend her, he tried to banish Imhotep's dying curse that echoed through his mind. He felt trapped by duty and circumstance as thoroughly as the disgraced priests entombed in lead and stone.

"We could… leave," he said, slowly, hardly believing the words had passed his lips. "The kingdom is in chaos. We could be far away before anyone realised."

Isetnofret shook her head gently, her gaze shifting to the granite idol and back again. The braziers guttered as the incense burned down, larger chunks popping and igniting on the coals.

"No, we cannot, beloved. You know this in your heart." She smiled, but her eyes moistened. "Our path does not lead us to build a house by the Nile and raise fine children. We are destined for different things."

Tears trickled from her kohled eyes, leaving tracks in the dense black cosmetic. She raised a hand to wipe them away before they dripped onto her robes. He reached out, hesitantly, mindful of any number of accusing eyes watching in the shadows.

"The temple is empty," Isetnofret declared softly, catching hold of his hand. "I have sent my priestesses and initiates away to their duties. And even if they were here, none would betray me. Whom I love, they love."

Pulling her to him, filling the aching space in his arms and heart, Tarik buried his face in her scented hair. She smelled clean and pure, unsullied by the treachery snaking through the Pharonic court. Nose pressed in the curve of her neck, he drew a shaking breath as she murmured comfort in his ear, fingers playing gentle timpani down his spine.

"Peace, beloved," she whispered. "Find your solace in me."

She slipped her slim arms about his neck, supple and strong as river reeds, capturing his mouth with hers. Teeth nipping gently at his lower lip, her smooth hands slid across his chest, the kiss becoming a silent demand, a plea. Too long starved of each other's company, desire transmuting to need, to hunger unfulfilled. Tarik forgot about the ever-present risk of discovery, sword-roughened hand sliding over the warm gold at her ankle, up her calf and to her sleek thigh. Palms against his chest, she pushed and he allowed her to lay him on the cool marble before the altar. She reared back, tugging at the jewelled girdle cinching her robes so they parted. He reached for her, eager for her skin against his, to fill and be fulfilled, to hear her gasp his name. It had been so long, too long.

"All acts of love and pleasure are Her rites," he quoted, worshipping with his hands, delighting in how she responded to his touch.

Silver beads in her hair turned effulgent by the tapers, she laughed, throwing back her head, the Isis knot swinging from her neck. He kissed the pulse there, drawing the soft skin into his mouth like fruit...

Eyes bursting open, woken by his own sharp intake of breath, Ardeth was aware only of the sudden lack, the absence of her, dream-confusion clouding his awareness. For a dizzy moment that stretched away before him, he had difficulty remembering who and where he was. The dying fire glowed like the setting sun a foot before his face, gifting him location, time and circumstance. Cautiously, he sat up, wrapped against the cave's chilly damp by a thick, woollen burnoose. The Elders had departed with their warrior escorts, leaving a dozen men chosen for their resourcefulness, including his brother, Faris. All save two stationed at the cave egress lay huddled in fitful, uneasy sleep about the fires, weapons in their hands.

Stepping across a quietly snoring Uthman, he moved a short distance across the uneven floor, shivering slightly as the cold worked nipping fingers beneath the wool. Cocooned in a crimson-dyed blanket, dark head pillowed against Khepri's tawny flank, Rhiannon breathed slowly and regularly in time with the slumbering djinn. She was just Rhiannon now, again dressed in travel-dusty black, lips parted in sleep, one pale hand resting at her collarbone. Memory older than his life stirred in Ardeth, jolted through him like the lightning storms preceding the yearly Inundation. He blinked, his mind's eye superimposing a High Priestess's splendour onto her sleeping form. The enormity of the realization stole his breath and he almost staggered where he stood, letting out an involuntary gasp.

Layla, curled protectively around her mistress's feet, raised her great lioness head and glared reproach. Of the two guardian djinn, she seemed to have least tolerance for his presence. Making a placatory gesture indicating he had no intention of harming or even waking the goddess, he crept closer, stopping only when Layla showed her dagger teeth.

"Isetnofret," he whispered, voice a shade quieter than the constant moan of the wind.

Lambent eyes glowing embers in the bluish gloom, the djinn cocked an ear, curiosity passing across her sphinx features. Stirring in her sleep, Rhiannon made a soft sound, the briefest murmur of acknowledgement. Gaze flitting to her mistress, and then back to the Med-Jai, Layla dipped her fierce head once in confirmation.

"The Queen of Heaven descends through her line, as the wheel of reincarnation turns." Layla's voice was deep, throaty, but somehow still feminine, awkwardly formed, as if from disuse. The dialect was old Egyptian, words falling like dust motes from a temple lintel. "Not every turn, but always the same lineage."

Stunned, Ardeth stared at the djinn, realising he had never heard them speak. Had not known them capable of speech. He opened his mouth, a thousand questions burgeoning, only for Layla to rumble dismissively.

"I have not spoken for four centuries. Idle chatter bores me. Back to your rocky bed and dreams, Tarik."

Shifting position so her back was to him, shielding Rhiannon from his view, she lay her golden head on her paws and pointedly closed her eyes. Left with little option but to return to the cold space by the fire, Ardeth dazedly stumped back and lay down, shivering inside his burnoose. Yawn catching in his throat, he realised the djinn had called him the name of the millennia-dead Med-Jai commander responsible for entombing the Creature. When the watch change came some three hours later, he lay wide-eyed and sleepless, mind a whirlwind of half-recalled tales from childhood. As dawn broke, cool and pink-grey across the Sinai, sleep had yet to find him.

*


End file.
